Not a Vain Man
by Lasso the Moon
Summary: Evelyn Napier has never considered himself to be a vain man. All he wanted in life was to love and be loved in return. Of course, of all the women in the world he could have chosen to love, he had to choose the one that was least likely to ever fall in love with him.
1. Letters

**Late March 1917**

He supposed he was a masochist for subjecting himself to such torture, but he had not hesitated in writing to ask to convalesce at Downton. It was mad, knowing how seeing her would affect him, but he had to ask.

After two hellish years enduring the horrors of war in trenches of France, Evelyn Napier was going to see Lady Mary Crawley again.

His feelings were a mixture of pent up anticipation, pain, and sorrow, as well as fear. He had not seen her in three years—three long, torturous years. He had only summoned up the courage to write to her now, after having his leg peppered with shrapnel and a bullet on the Somme. Thankfully he didn't have to get it amputated—he had woken up in the Middlesbrough hospital afraid that the surgeon had taken off his leg, but found it intact. The man had actually worked on it, getting out some of the shrapnel, but the wounds were still very new and he was confined to a wheelchair until he could learn to use his crutches. He was determined to ride again—he _had_ to ride again. Ever since he was a boy, Evelyn had loved horses. He felt more at home atop a horse, one with the country. It gave him a sense of calm, which was why he had enlisted in the cavalry the day after Britain declared war.

The things he had seen were unspeakable. He could not—would not—talk about them with anyone, not as long as he lived. He had gone in with everyone else thinking this thing would be over by Christmas, but oh how wrong they had been. He had changed so much since then—then he was a patriotic, heartbroken boy that still soldiered on through life with a smile on his face, ready to do his bit for king and country, now he was a broken down man that was only a shadow of his former self in his opinion. But he needed to get better, he needed to move on—in more ways than one.

He had been lying in his hospital bed trying not to think about the shell going off and killing the two men in front of him. The doctor had finally come in and told him that he had the chance of a full recovery, but he needed to get used to his injuries so that he could work himself up to full strength again. He rattled off names of convalescent homes and his heart stopped when the word 'Downton' fell from his lips. He might have just as well said _Mary_. He didn't know why he was doing this to himself. He needed to see her, to convince himself that they hadn't had a chance to begin with because she had never taken notice of him. He had always been Evelyn Napier, friend of the family, Evelyn Napier, Viscount Branksome's charming boy, never Evelyn Napier, potential suitor. He would never be Evelyn Napier, _fiance_. Even when he had tried to be just that, she was more interested in his late friend than him.

He sometimes thought about Kemal—he had been the first, but certainly not the last, friend he had lost so suddenly. He felt horrible because he had resented him, been so jealous because of the way Mary was staring at him, laughing at him, talking with him. What would he had given for her to look that way at him, just once? It wasn't worth his friend's life, though. If anything he was guilty because of his jealousy. He had been a terribly nice chap, if not a cad, but a great comfort when his mother had died. The pair had been polar opposites to be sure—Kemal was charming, exotic, and had no trouble at all keeping ladies' attentions, but Evelyn knew they all thought him so dull. He tried not be jealous because jealousy was both unbecoming and weakening—besides, the man was dead. He had folded, accepted defeat, and backed away, never intending to pursue Mary again.

He wasn't here to seek her hand in marriage. God knew he would be lucky if any woman would have him now, mental and physical wreck he was. He just wanted to see her, that was all, to talk to her, to hear her voice again, perhaps rekindle their friendship if anything. She seemed willing enough in her letter, which he read over and over again to pass the time. It still had her perfume—lavender mingled with jasmine and the soft country breeze. Reading it also helped him to stop thinking about his experiences at the front, just as he had thought about her there to block out the killing, the bleeding, the roar of artillery and cries of dying men.

Yes, he was still very much in love with her, he freely admitted that, but she must never know. He had his pride—just barely—and he wasn't about to jeopardize it by setting himself up for rejection. Besides, the rumor around town was that she was seeing some important newspaper magnate, so a wounded, shellshocked viscount's boy didn't have a chance in the world. He was still adamant that he would marry only if his future wife loved him as well, and Lady Mary Crawley did not love him.

Evelyn's heavy lidded eyes scanned over the letter once more before closing. He settled back into his pillow and drifted off, dreaming of his unrequited love's face and whatever his arrival tomorrow at Downton would bring.


	2. Reunion

** Thank you so much to those who reviewed/followed/read! I do indeed plan on taking this to S4. This chapter and the next will focus on Evelyn's offscreen visit to Downton, and the ones after that will fill in what he was doing S3, but I will get to his second courtship of Mary...**

_Dear Lady Mary,_

_I know it's been quite long since I last made your acquaintance, but I hope you'll forgive me for staying away. I wished no further discomfort upon your family after my last visit, and after we met in London I was almost immediately kept busy by the war. That being said, I have missed our conversations and our correspondence._

_How are you? As I write this, I am thankfully out of the trenches and in a hospital in Middlesbrough. I was wounded in the leg, and after a period of convalescence, I will with luck be sent home. I won't be able to walk for a bit, but truth be told I am just grateful to be back in England. I wonder if I might convalesce at Downton? I heard from a doctor that it had been turned into a convalescent home. Of course, I wish to be treated like any other officer, and understand completely if there is no room. If that is the case, I am enclosing a souvenir from across the Channel, since I'm not sure when or if I can give it to you in person. It's a poppy flower from Flanders in Belgium. I kept it pressed between the pages of my Bible for months with the intention of giving it to you if I survived. Please accept it as a token of my friendship._

_Sincerely,_

_The Honorable Captain Evelyn Napier_

* * *

Mary was not expecting a letter from Evelyn Napier. She had not heard from the man in years, not since he told her that Edith had been the one to send the letter about Pamuk to the Turkish ambassador. It was not unpleasant, not at all, she was glad that he was safe for the time being, but had not given him much thought even though naturally every healthy young man she had known would be in France.

Of course he was not the young man in France that she was most worried about at the moment. Her heart beat only for Matthew, who was engaged to another woman. He was on leave, and would have to go back eventually, but at least now he wasn't in any danger, thank God. Even so, Evelyn Napier had been the last thing on her mind when she received his letter in the morning post. She was taken off guard at the fact that he had taken the trouble to write to her after so long, though she didn't doubt his friendship in the least after what he had done for her in London.

* * *

_Dear Captain Napier,_

_We would be glad to have you, there is no question of it. My family and I are well—of course, things have changed what with the war and the house being converted into a convalescent home. It has been far too long and we all would like to see you again. We were all glad for your letter, as you have been in our thoughts._

_I am sorry for your injuries but am relieved to know they are not life-threatening, and that you are safe and sound. You are a dear friend of mine and my family, and will be treated like a guest—Mama and Papa insist, and so do I. Thank you for your gift, I will treasure it always. We will expect you soon._

_Your affectionate friend,_

_Lady Mary Crawley_

* * *

Evelyn's dark azure eyes ghosted over the letter over and over as the car rumbled toward Downton from the station. It was polite, it was friendly, it was warm—but it was, of course, the letter one would write to a friend. In her defense, so was his. He had no intentions of pursuing her as he had in 1912, and he very well knew that she had not cared for him that way in 1914. Why then, would things have changed?

Even so, the promise of seeing her again was exhilarating. It _had_ been so long—had she changed? Of course she probably had—he certainly had. He was thinner than he was the last time he saw her, but he had shaved his mustache back at the hospital, half-afraid that she wouldn't recognize him if he hadn't. There was a hollow expression in his eyes that he had seen on the faces of other soldiers—it had almost frightened him when he saw it in himself. It was the look of one that had seen death and been the cause of it. He made a conscious effort to hide it for her sake and that of the people around them.

The vehicle slowed and the driver opened the trunk first, pulling out his wheelchair, then opened the door. He climbed into the chair with the driver's help, nodding at the man before allowing the private who had been sitting in the front seat to wheel him up to the entrance, where the Crawleys were waiting.

He was greeted first by Lady Grantham and her husband, as was expected. He did not allow his eyes to wander to her until it was her turn. The first thing he noticed was that she had only grown more beautiful than he last remembered in those three years apart. She was still every bit the confident and graceful daughter of the Earl of Grantham. "Lady Mary—thank you ever so much for your letter. I'm very glad to see you again." There were millions of things he_ wished_ he could have said, but they were all as true as this—he was elated to see her again.

"Not at all, Captain Napier. It was so good of you to write, I was glad to hear from you, and it is wonderful to see you again." She took his hand and it took everything in him not to lose his composure. The physical contact was what convinced him that this was real, that he had not dreamt it—that he had survived to see Lady Mary's face again. How funny it was that she had no idea, not even the slightest inkling, of how highly he thought of her. He liked to think that she was the reason he was here, that he still drew breath. It was her he had been determined to see as he crawled his way back across no man's land to the nearest medical officer, after he had been shot. He had heard about the so-called Angel of Mons, and she was his Angel of the Somme.

He smiled his first real smile in months as she smiled at him, and for a moment he forgot the shame of having to be wheeled inside instead of walking alongside her. In the old days he might have complimented her on how well she looked, but he figured that this was neither the time nor the place. Nor would it ever be, he imagined. She would not have had him years ago, he reasoned, and would not have him now—or ever. That was his fate, and he had accepted it.


	3. It's a Long Way to Tipperary

**Thanks again to my readers and followers, and to my reviewers! Yes, I included the poppy in the last chapter because I'm quite fascinated by World War I and its history. A lot of the story will deal with how Evelyn was affected by the war, but I promise that there will be plenty of romance as well.**

"What will you do once you've recovered?"

Evelyn's sapphire eyes left the makeshift game of football some of the officers were playing on the lawn and sought Mary's curious chocolate gaze. He had considered what he might do, should he survive, rather briefly, but not seriously. It was dangerous as well as futile to make plans for life after the war when you didn't know if you would survive the war to begin with. Now that he had been informed his honorable discharge was forthcoming, he supposed it was something he needed to think about. "I…I'll probably go back to Grimsby for a while—look after Father and the estate." Grimsby Park near Poole in Dorset was where he had been born and hoped to die. "Maybe I'll hunt, and ride, and swim…and possibly even do some writing to relax for a while. Then I'll go back to work at the foreign office, if they'll have me."

"They will." Mary's response was immediate, surprising the both of them. A beautiful smile graced her face and she continued seamlessly, "Cousin Shrimpie's always going on about you and how you're an asset to the office. He'll have to watch out pretty soon."

He chuckled sheepishly at her compliment. While it was true that Lord Flintshire thought very highly of him, he doubted that he was grooming him to be his replacement—that honor would go to his son James, and Evelyn didn't have his sights set on being a foreign minister. "Actually, I think I might want to run for Parliament." It would be good practice for when he received his father's seat, and he did feel that he could be of real service to his country.

"Heavens, don't let Sybil hear you say that. I fear she'll go on about women's rights to try to influence your platform." Mary joked lightly. "I think it suits you. You'll make a fine politician," she added genuinely after a moment of thought. "You have an understanding of what's happening abroad, and you do care about the country as a whole."

"Do you mean it?" he asked, his gaze lighting up and his voice hopeful, in spite of his attempts to subdue his obvious fascination with her. He was hanging off of her every word by a thread, and his eyes never left hers. She looked startled by the intensity of his gaze, and he broke eye contact for both of their sakes. He was making things awkward between them—he wondered if she had any idea how deep his feelings ran. If anything had given them away, it had been that singular look. "O-only, I have to actually _win_ first," he amended once he had recovered.

Mary appeared to be distracted, but he did not flatter or deceive himself by thinking it was because of him. "I don't see how you couldn't. A former diplomat turned dashing war hero? They would be mad not to vote for you."

Had she really called him that? She was only being kind, he assured himself. She had never been truly attracted to him, and certainly was not now. "Well, let's hope my division agrees with you." They exchanged smiles and he swiftly diverted his attention to the football game—artillery versus cavalry. He wished he could be out there with them. This was both paradise and torture—being so close to her was intoxicating, but knowing that she felt nothing for him ruined the joy he felt. Besides, he had spent many an afternoon at Oxford playing football with his schoolmates in a field. Now, most of his schoolmates were either dead or overseas, possibly _about_ to die. Ever since he stumbled across his first dead friend's body at Ypres, he had wondered why _him_?

Lieutenant David Cromwell, a man in his class at Oxford, had been married, leaving behind not only a wife but an infant daughter. He had asked him, the night before his death, to look after his family in case anything happened to him. He had agreed, thinking him to be paranoid, but had ended up giving his widow an allowance until she had been able to find work. David had not deserved to die, none of those poor souls did. He had had so much more to live for than Evelyn did—he had no one to come home to, except for his father, no one that depended on him. Why then, had he been spared? Mary's voice awakened him from these morbid thoughts, but it took a moment to process her question.

"Is there a Mrs. Napier on the horizon?" she asked with a teasing lilt.

He wanted to laugh, but feared it would come out as a strangled cry. "No." he answered simply, his eyes still fixed on the game in front of them. He wasn't angry, only upset—upset that he was so drawn to her, so entranced, after so many years, upset that he was a man chained to an impossible dream. He could never have been happy with Sarah Semphill, his fiancée, because he realized that he was still very ardently in love with Mary Crawley. That was why he had broken the engagement—not because he found her wanting, but because he could never love her. He had told her then that he was undeserving. She had loved him, and had accepted the outcome gracefully. Now she was happily married to a duke, so everyone had gotten what they deserved—including him for misleading that poor girl for so long. "I regret to say there is not. Father would have me marry for connections or wealth but…if I may speak frankly, I want nothing more than to marry for love."

Mary again seemed curiously perturbed, and Evelyn assumed that it was because of his honesty. "Lady Mary, if I've spoken out of turn…"

She waved away his apology and soon composed herself. If he was not mistaken, it looked as if she had realized something, judging by how her eyes had widened suddenly and then returned to normal. "No, not at all. It's admirable of you to say that. I wish you every happiness."

_If you did, surely you would see…_ Oh, but that was a silly, stupid—not to mention selfish—thing to think. For all he knew, she could love this Richard Carlisle person as much as he loved her, and who was he to judge? "Thank you." he replied, faking serenity as he had been taught for years, with a twitch of a smile. Mary excused herself to get ready for dinner, and one of the orderlies wheeled him into the library at his request.

* * *

"Captain Napier?" Evelyn glanced up from _The Jungle Book_, as Lady Edith spoke. "I was wondering if there was anything you needed. I'm the unofficial librarian here, and I try to help out as best I can. If there's anything you need, please let me know." the middle Crawley daughter stated with a genuine smile.

How strange it was to think that _she _had been the one that began those awful rumors in London. He remembered the day, quite vividly, in spring of 1914, that he had marched down the hall to the Turkish ambassador's office. It was a rare sight to see Evelyn Napier livid, and an even rarer sight to see him yell at anyone in anger, but he _had _been livid, and he _had_ yelled, frightening both himself and the Turkish ambassador. Mary had never been his—not then, not now, not ever—but he had never been so protective of a woman in his life, not even his former fiancée. He had practically interrogated the man until he handed over Edith's letter. His heart broke for Mary as he read it, which was when he truly realized that he had not stopped loving her for an instant.

Now he was surprised at the change in her younger sister. He had not given much thought to her after learning she was the source of that reputation-destroying gossip. He also did not hold it against her, knowing that people change as time goes by—he certainly had. "Thank you. You've a well-stocked library. I found a piece of Kipling's that I'm quite enjoying." He loved reading about India because he had done a stint there not long after the Albanian talks.

"Oh? Our Cousin Matthew adores Kipling. Mary's been reading him pretty often too—Captain Napier, are you alright?"

It was a thought—only a thought—but it caused his hands to tighten around the book, and his countenance to become alarmingly pallid. They had been rivals for a few hours the night Kemal died, both wistfully observing the pair and wryly commenting on their mutual misfortune. He had thought him a nice chap, if not a little unrefined, but certainly no match for the almost regal Lady Mary. But what if he had underestimated him? Perhaps he was wrong—he was the heir. He would become an earl, owner of her childhood home—which morally if not legally should be her birthright—while he would become a simple viscount, with nothing to offer her but a fortune, an unfamiliar house, and an undying love that he was sure would not be returned. It was a perfect match—a tidy one—and if she was humoring him with reading Kipling, and if her distraction while he talked of marrying for love was what he thought it was, Mr. Crawley had much better of a chance than he did. "I seem to have taken on a dreadful headache. I can wheel myself, thank you, Lady Edith." He uttered this last part rather abruptly as she took a step forward, presumably to help him. He knew that his brusque conduct appeared rude, but he needed the time to himself. Besides, what good would it do if she or anyone else saw the broken, defeated expression on his face as he rolled his chair away?


	4. Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kitbag

**Another heartfelt thank you to my reviewers and readers! A special thank you to Alice shipper and Hillevi for your reviews last chapter! And I agree, their relationship has always intrigued me. I was rewatching the first series and in their letters they addressed each other by their first names, which was rare for that time period.**

"How is your father, Captain Napier?" Lady Grantham asked in her warm, accented tone. She had been a friend of his mother's years ago, and at least made him think that she genuinely wanted their families to join together through a marriage between her eldest daughter and himself.

"As well as ever, I'm afraid. Very lonely ever since Mother died—more so since the war started, but he'll have me as company when I return." After a restless nap to pass the time—Evelyn couldn't even bring himself to so much as _look_ at Kipling—his new valet dressed him in his mess kit and helped him down to the drawing room before dinner. He had hovered for a few moments, glancing surreptitiously but longingly at Mary more often than he cared to admit, before being approached by Lady Grantham.

"He'll be glad to have you back. Mary tells me you have no plans of settling down?"

The ambiguous question was one for which he was thoroughly unprepared. "No…no I prefer to keep busy." he replied carefully, realizing that this was aimed at his personal life. He should not have been surprised. After all, he was still ever the eligible bachelor and she still had ever the eligible daughters.

"Mary was so relieved to hear from you."

Evelyn closed his eyes for a moment before responding courteously. "Lady Grantham, my views on the matter have not changed since my last visit. If it were up to me…" He trailed off, hoping that she would gather his meaning, and she did with a sympathetic smile and nod.

She looked as if she had more to say, but just then they were informed that dinner was ready. He was quiet throughout the first course, observing the chatter around him when Lord Grantham spoke. "You were on the Somme, weren't you, Captain Napier?"

"I was, Lord Grantham." he answered with a polite twitch of his lips, taking a sip from his wine.

"Horrible business, even with all the modern equipment. What do you think went wrong?"

The rest of the table was silent, and Evelyn had a sour taste in his mouth, but it wasn't from the wine. What went _wrong_ was that command had sent so many innocent boys to their deaths, and for what? A few miles? What went wrong was that he had been forced to kill a young German soldier in his trench with his bare hands. What went wrong was how he could still see the faces of the men he killed, frozen in either hatred or surprise or more often than not just plain fear.

"Papa, I'm sure Captain Napier did his best, isn't that right?"

Her voice brought him back from that hell of a place. His hands were gripping his napkin too tightly, his lips were drawn, his face pale, and his eyes distant. Mary must have noticed and changed the subject to a game of table tennis in the salon.

He blinked, regaining his faculties, and stared at Mary, further dazed to find that she had been watching him. But of course she had seen him space out—she _was_ sitting right next to him. "Are you alright?" she asked in a quiet but concerned undertone.

"Yes…yes, thank you." He found his voice enough to react, smiling gratefully. "I'm sorry, sometimes it's…it's difficult to adjust."

"I can only imagine." _No, you can't,_ he wanted to say. _No, you can't, and I don't want you to._

"Lady Edith tells me you're an admirer of Kipling?" he inquired, realizing that this was the only way he would get a straight answer to the question burning in his mind.

Mary raised her wineglass to her lips and nodded. "I am—though I must say it's a recent development. Cousin Matthew was always hogging his books in the library. You've met him, haven't you?"

"Yes." The night one of his best friends stole her away, he had been forced to chat with him. Of course, he had nothing against him. They might have been friends at some point for all he knew, if not for the unfortunate complication that they were in love with the same woman. The way she had described him caused him to realize despairingly that they had so much in common—they both liked Kipling and poetry, both had gone to Oxford to study law, and both were rather bookish young men. She could have just as easily fallen in love with him, but he was too _boring_ for her.

The conversation shifted to the season before the war, when he was Mr. Napier, not Captain. He had still been engaged to Sarah, but still so very much in love with Mary. He recalled asking her to dance and coming to the realization that it was as close as he would ever get to her. That dance—still ingrained in his memory so lucidly—had been a crucial moment in his life. As he whirled her around the ballroom, the encounter had been what had finally spurred to break his engagement. Holding her and inhaling her lavender scent was too much for him then—he would never see any other woman's face but hers. He would find himself expecting to see her eyes instead of Sarah's, and to hear her soothing yet authoritative voice. He had truly been close to proposing at their last meeting in London, but rejection had scared him—rejection, and the heated conversation he had had with his father after putting off the wedding. He had believed he was making a mistake—he had been the one to inform him of the rumors in London, and said that if he married her, the name Napier would be forever sullied. It was a price Evelyn was willing to pay if it meant being with Mary, but the question the Viscount Branksome asked of him had been what had ultimately made him hesitate: _Do you even know if she loves you?_

The answer was no, he did not. Back then and even now, he was determined to marry a woman that loved him. But he _had _been willing to break his rule for her, to _save_ her from the cloud of gossip surrounding her. The problem was that he knew she would never accept him.

The rest of dinner was uneventful, and after another uncomfortable discussion with Lord Grantham about his wartime experiences, he wheeled himself into the drawing room.

"Captain Napier—I was hoping to catch you before you went up." Lady Grantham called him over with a smile.

He was surprised as well as curious as to why she wished to speak with him, but smiled nonetheless and stopped beside her chair. "How can I help, Lady Grantham?"

"You said earlier, if it was up to you…you would have had Mary?"

Evelyn faltered in astonishment—why did she still see him as a potential son-in-law? He had tried and failed. It was over. Mary didn't _want_ his love, but he would give her his friendship unyieldingly. "Yes. Yes, I care very much for Lady Mary."

"And Lady Mary is fond of you. Captain Napier, you asked me once if you could risk embarrassment by being honest, and now I must ask you if I may do the same. You should tell her what you almost told me." she stated pointedly. He knew perfectly well what she meant. He didn't agree with her, but he understood. "The choice is yours, of course, but Lady Mary has no idea—and how will she, unless you tell her? If you don't want to, I respect your judgment. It is your choice and yours alone, but I saw the two of you, and how troubled you looked…"

Evelyn didn't know which was more embarrassing—the fact that the mother of the woman he loved knew how heartbroken he was, or the fact that she was encouraging him to confess that love? It was touching, really, that she had enough faith in him to be on his side, but he knew he would be unable to make her daughter happy. He would try, by God he would try, but he knew he would never succeed—not as long as Matthew Crawley drew breath. "Thank you, Lady Grantham…but I'm not sure how helpful that would be."

Lady Grantham nodded but added softly, "Even so, you may regret it for the rest of your life—so I urge you to think very carefully."

He thought he saw something odd—distant, but odd—flicker in her eyes as she spoke, but it was too quick to decipher. He was shocked that she was so open with him about her observations—he wondered how much of that was due to her being American. Still, she had always been kind to him—she had known his mother, after all. "You've given me much to think about. Good night, Lady Grantham." He repeated the words to the rest of the family accordingly before letting an orderly help him to his room, leaving him alone with only his thoughts and dreams of Mary instead of the front for a change.


	5. And Smile, Smile, Smile

**And Smile, Smile, Smile**

**Thanks again to all my reviewers and readers! Thanks especially to hillevi for giving me the idea for this chapter's setting. Next chapter will briefly fill in the blanks for Evelyn between S2 and S4, and then we'll get to my version of S4.**

It felt good to wear civilian clothes again. Maybe someday he would be prouder of his service than he was now, but all he could think of was how the shells exploded next to him and hearing the cries of dying men. He had gone off to Lord Flintshire the day after he last spoke to Mary, asking him to pull whatever strings he had to in order to put him on the front lines as soon as it started—for, as he had said, they both knew that there would be a war. The Foreign Minister had been confused as to why he wanted to enlist so early, and Evelyn merely answered that he wanted to his duty. Little did Lord Flintshire know that the young man had wanted to escape from his overpowering love for the woman next to him.

How lovely she looked in her riding habit. And she was so blissfully unaware of what he felt for her. She had asked him to come out riding with her, presumably to boost his spirits. Even she could see how tortured his mind and soul were. He couldn't stop thinking about what Lady Grantham had said—to tell her, no matter what the consequences. Even if nothing came of it, at least he would feel better. Evelyn was not convinced he would feel any better with a broken heart.

"Are you alright, Captain Napier?" she inquired then, evidently aware that something was troubling him.

"Quite…" He was lying of course, but something other than his dilemma was bothering him. "I don't feel much like a captain anymore." He was going home tomorrow—never again would he be obligated to wear the uniform. Being called 'Captain' now just seemed odd, even if it was a sign of courtesy.

"Would you prefer Mr. Napier?"

"I would." He inclined his head with a grateful smile. "It's been so good of your family to let me stay here. Thank you again."

"You're a friend, Mr. Napier. We're all fond of you, there's no need for thanks. Though…I do wish you would write more often." Her tone was light—he could not detect any earnestness to clue him into whether she had truly missed their correspondence. They were both so good at it, hiding what was really on their minds. They had been raised to do so.

"I missed writing, too. But I have a feeling you know why I didn't…" he began slowly, forcing his eyes upward to gauge her reaction.

She blinked in surprise, puzzlement written across her face. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean…I understand what with the war and the foreign office you must have been busy—"

"No, that's not it." He flipped the horse's reins and turned him about, starting to canter away.

"Tell me, what is it?"

He slowed the horse to a stop, convincing himself that it was friendly concern speaking to him and nothing else. "It was your second season, and I was home in London from Oxford. We met at Lord Bradley's ball. I agreed to read Austen if you read Trollop, and we promised each other we would discuss our respective reading regimens the next time we crossed paths. When Mother died, you distracted me with talk of Yorkshire in the summer. You gave me the first dance at Sybil's ball in 1914. I…I fell in love with you more and more on each of these occasions. I still am, even though I know it isn't good for me. It's been eating me alive for years. I would have told you so long ago, when we actually had a chance, but I know—you don't have to tell me what your feelings toward me are. She would say that he was a loyal friend, and although she was flattered, she couldn't love him. "I understand, Lady Mary. Really, I do. But I want you to know that I have never loved anyone else, and I doubt I ever will."

Mary's unaffected shell broke for a moment, and he watched as shock registered across her face. Then…was that guilt? "Evelyn…"

"Captain Crawley is a lucky man," he interrupted in his coolly polite aristocratic voice to mask his heartache. He didn't want her to feel guilty. She couldn't help whom she loved, just the same as he couldn't.

She quickly realized what he was getting at, and her expression was both grateful and apologetic. Then she responded half-teasingly, "Captain Crawley is also engaged."

_And an idiot it would seem._ Evelyn wasn't looking for a reason to dislike him, but he had certainly found one without trying. Any man that broke Lady Mary Crawley's heart was one he was unwilling to respect, but any man she loved he _had_ to respect. "So are you, practically, to this Sir Richard fellow, and that didn't stop me." he answered with a wry smile. She laughed at this—God, how he'd missed her laugh—and he added soberly, "Mary, you could have any man in the world you wanted. He just doesn't know it yet."

"He is already spoken for, Evelyn. Besides, I have to marry Richard. Matthew gets the estate and Mama's money—all three of us have to find husbands." she went on to explain.

He understood that, of course he did—it sounded like something out of _Pride and Prejudice_, which she _had _made him read. But something still bothered him. "Do you love Sir Richard?"

Mary shook her head and looked away. "We don't have the luxury of marrying for love like men do."

"_I_ love you…"

She shook her head again, looking distraught. "I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't love you, not in the way you love me. You deserve someone who—"

"This isn't about what I _deserve_, Mary. _You_ deserve a man that loves you and treats you well, not someone that gives you pretty gifts just because you helped him up the social ladder." Evelyn cut in, his voice trembling. "I don't presume to say that I am that man, but I would try to be. I would love you unconditionally, without asking for anything in return."

"How is that even remotely fair to you? I'd never use you like that."

"But you'd use Carlisle?" he shot back, raising an eyebrow.

"I couldn't make you happy." she insisted desperately, ignoring his question.

"I would be the happiest man in the world if given to chance to spend my life by your side." he stated, voice quivering with passion and fear, and his eyes meeting hers for once without hesitation. "I'm in agony now; it can't get much worse than having to live without you."

She broke the contact then, unable to look at him. "I can't. I'm…I'm so sorry."

He had known this was how it would end. Not only had he shattered his own heart, but he had destroyed their friendship as well. "Forgive me, Lady Mary." he said stiffly.

"Excuse me, Mr. Napier." She still hid her face from him and spurred Diamond away and back to the house, leaving Evelyn to pick up the fragments of his heart.


	6. Back to Real Life

**Thanks again to my readers/reviewers/followers! You guys keep me writing, so I appreciate your feedback :) This chapter has a cameo by a minor character at hillevi's request.**

**Back to Real Life**

_"We're going to charge them."_

_"Sir?" Evelyn's eyes darted toward the captain's, surprise written across his face. _

_"We're going to charge their lines, Lieutenant Napier."_

_Lieutenant Walters's green eyes met Evelyn's blue ones, their expressions identical. It was suicide. The Germans knew they were coming, so they lacked the element of surprise. They probably had their machine guns set up now as they were speaking._

_"Sir, with all due respect—"_

_"Command wants us to, Napier. We don't ask questions, we just follow orders." Captain Gordon answered, spurring his horse around and inspecting the lines._

_Ten minutes later, they were ready—or at least, they appeared to be. Was any man truly ready to face death? Evelyn wasn't. He was scared, and he knew it. He supposed, to a certain degree, it would be better to die now than to continue to watch his friends get slaughtered around him and to slaughter Huns in return, but deep down he knew that if not for this war, he could have been living a completely different life. Though…would he really have been happy? He would have either been working at the foreign office for Lord Flintshire, pining away for Lady Mary when he _knew _that his efforts were in vain, or sitting in an office in London writing people's wills, perhaps married to Sarah or some other woman he didn't particularly love._

_"Draw!" Gordon yelled. The rows of cavalrymen started forward, walking, then trotting, then cantering, then galloping at full speed. The officers drew their swords in unison. "Charge!"_

_"Charge!" His voice echoed the captain's as they rode toward the German trench. As he predicted, the guns opened fire. He tried to ignore the screams that followed. He saw a cloud of something in the air and his horse jerked violently. He found himself on the ground, lying next to his dead horse. He was disoriented at first by all the fighting around him, until a German started toward him with a bayonet. Evelyn kicked him and then slammed into him rugby-style, throwing him onto the ground as he wrestled for control of the rifle. The man shoved him backward, and Evelyn searched the ground behind him for his saber. His hand closed around the handle and he swung it—again, and again, and again…_

"Why won't you die?!"

"Evelyn! Stop! Stop it, Evelyn!"

"Mr. Napier—"

His wild eyes flew open, expecting to see a Hun trying to kill him, but instead saw his grey-haired, blue-eyed father backed into the corner of his room. His arms were held back by his valet and the butler, and a few stray wisps of his disheveled dark hair were plastered to his forehead. "W…what? Gordon…Walters?"

"It was only a dream, son, that's all..." The viscount, seeing that his son was no longer thrashing, crossed the room and sat down beside him. "Only a dream."

"A dream." he muttered brokenly, resisting the urge to laugh. "It was no dream, it happened…"

He felt his father's arms around him, and distantly heard him telling the servants to leave them. "You're home, now, son, you're safe. The Armistice was signed a year ago."

He knew that. He knew perfectly well that the war was over, but his mind couldn't seem to accept it. Night after night he was taken back to the front. More often than not his dreams ended with him convulsing as if he was fighting a man trying to strangle him, and the servants had to come in to stop him from hurting himself or his father. It was times like this that made him glad Mary had rejected him—he wasn't fit to be a husband, or a father, or anything, really. He was only a shell of the man he once was.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm…I'm just so sorry…" His voice cracked and so did his resolve as the tears finally poured forth. His father said nothing, but enfolded him in an embrace, holding him like he was still the homesick boy just back from Eton, waking up to a bad dream about some imaginary demons. These demons were not imaginary—they were real, and they didn't disappear with a late night cup of tea. Evelyn was afraid he would have to deal with them forever, and how could he possibly move on with his life that way?

* * *

**January 1920**

Evelyn woke up with a start before stretching and ringing for his valet. Jones had dressed him during the war, and he had decided to keep him on afterward because he was so dependable. The two men were similar in age, so their relationship was like one between two friends instead of a viscount's son and his valet.

"How did you sleep, sir?"

"Well, surprisingly." His dreams were not as frequent as they were several months ago, and he had stopped attacking people that tried to help him return to reality. He buttoned his black waistcoat thoughtfully, deciding whether or not he wanted to read, ride, or walk down to Poole. He had not thought himself capable of work for so long, and his doctor agreed. He still had trouble recognizing that he was no longer at the front, so he had been advised to let things settle for a while until his mind and body readjusted to civilian life. He still had a bad limp, and needed the cane for walking, but he had succeeded in learning to ride again.

Once Jones had finished dressing him in his suit, he hobbled down the grand staircase with the valet by his side just in case. He found his father sitting at the breakfast table as usual, with an unusual as well as indecipherable expression on his face. "Good morning, father…"

"Good morning. Did you see the paper?" he asked, sliding it over to him.

"How could I? I just woke…" He froze when he saw what page it was opened to, and dropped it when he saw the picture. He didn't even bother to read the announcement, he didn't need to. He was standing, and his father was speaking…something about how now it must be easier for him to find a wife, and he shook his head, wishing that he could run and damning his injuries as he left the room. He knew that she would marry—either Carlisle or Crawley—but he also knew that when or if Crawley proposed, his chances would be dashed against the rocks forever.

He found himself in his room, and he began packing his old trunk from Oxford. He needed to get out—out of Dorset, out of bloody England if he had to. He needed to work, he needed to have a _life _again.

"Evelyn, I'm sorry."

"No you aren't, Father, you didn't even like her, isn't that what you said?" he snapped—or choked, rather—with a humorless chuckle, folding one of his shirts as his father walked in after him. "This isn't even about her, you know. I have to go back to the office—it's been two years." _He_ had gone back to working at his job much sooner than that, he was sure…but that was silly, to compare himself to a man he didn't even know. Jealousy wasn't becoming in anyone, and it was a weakness, not a strength. He wished them well, and that was that. Mary was happy—that was all he wanted. "I need…I need to live life again. I've been trapped in 1917 for too long." He finished packing the trunk and sighed resolutely. "I'm going to London."

* * *

"Napier, my boy! So wonderful to have you back again."

"Wonderful to be back, Lord Flintshire—it was good of you to take me on again." Evelyn replied with a smile, shaking the elder man's hand firmly when he offered it to him. He had arrived by train in London yesterday. He hadn't left his father's estate since before he got back from Downton nearly three years prior, so naturally the city was changed. It was full of people, like him, trying to adjust to the new world the senseless bloodshed had won. Of course, when he was still fighting the war, he couldn't call it that. He had to believe—all men that went to war did—for the time being that every sacrifice, every death, was worthwhile. He had to believe that he was fighting for _something_, in order to keep sane. His something had been seeing _her_ again, but she never had been and never would be his.

"Nonsense, nonsense." The Foreign Minister waved his hand and smiled broadly, sitting down at his desk. "We needed you during the treaty—and we need you now more than ever, of course."

"Actually, I was wondering if I might go abroad again, if I'm needed." _He_ needed to go abroad…it'd be just like the way things were before the war—or almost, at least. He wanted—and needed—to stop thinking about Mary, and working would ensure that, but he couldn't work here.

"Of course, name your post and you'll have it, lad."

He had spent plenty of time thinking about where he wanted to go. He needed to go somewhere that wouldn't remind him even remotely of Mary. "America."

* * *

"Napier! Could you hang on a moment?"

Evelyn had just put on his top hat, about to leave the foreign office building when he heard a familiar voice calling him. "Margadale…it's been a long time."

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

'Old friend' was no way to describe Terence Margadale. Lord Flintshire had asked him to keep an eye on him when he started at the office, which was back in 1914. He hadn't been called up—nor had he volunteered—because of a medical condition, so he had worked at the office all through the war. He was the complete opposite of Evelyn and reminded him a lot of Kemal Pamuk, to be honest. But then again, Kemal had been his friend, Terence…Terence just came to him whenever he needed help with something.

"What do you want this time, Terence?" he asked, exasperated.

"Oh come _on_, Evelyn, why do you always assume that…" The man's usually confident attitude withered under the younger diplomat's accusatory stare. "Right…so I'm going to the Blue Dragon tonight—"

"The _what_?" Evelyn's dark eyebrows knit together as he started walking down the sidewalk toward his car.

"It's a jazz club. And I'm meeting a friend…if you know what I mean?"

He stopped walking and turned around. "What?"

"Oh, don't be daft, Napier, surely you've…you've no idea what mean, do you? A _lady _friend?"

"I should have known." Of course, like Kemal, the man was a complete cad. "Won't Mrs. Margadale disapprove?"

"Uh…well, look, if I tell her I was going to the club with you for dinner, I wouldn't be lying, now would I?"

Evelyn exhaled in frustration. "You want me to cover for your affair. Firstly, no, I won't—and secondly, you should be ashamed. You don't know how lucky you are, Margadale, you really don't. You have a wife that cares about you—probably loves you—very much, and I'm sure you felt the same way about her at some point. And you're throwing it away for what? A little excitement? The only one that's daft is you. I'd give anything for a life like that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to pack." He brushed past him and climbed into his car when his chauffeur opened the door, his thoughts again gravitating toward the last person on earth he wanted to think of.


	7. April Showers

**Haha, I'm a journalist, so I generally write fast—thank you again to my reviewers and readers!**

**April Showers**

**April 3, 1922**

"Here's the deposition you requested, milord."

"When I'm here just Mr. Napier is fine, Jenkins. Really." Evelyn—now Evelyn Napier, Viscount Branksome—told the younger man with a reassuring smile. "Thank you." He took the portfolio from him and raised his coffee to his lips before fixing his eyes on the document before him.

His father had died earlier last year, when he was in London practicing property law. He had done his year long stint at the American embassy and decided to pursue that dream of running for the House of Commons, but life had a twisted way of giving him what he wanted—his father had had a stroke, and he was left with his seat in the House of Lords, his estate, his money, and his title. Not long after the funeral, he had received a letter from Lady Grantham and Lady Mary expressing their sympathies, as he had done the same when Lady Sybil had died. Aside from that, he did not make a point to continue correspondence because he figured that things would be awkward between him and Lady Mary—which was all his doing, and he did sincerely regret telling her how he felt about her. It didn't hurt as much to think about her as it had in the past, but he also had no plans for leaving bachelorhood any time soon. While his father was still living, he insisted simply that he couldn't find the time for courtship. In America he was introduced to many wealthy businessmen and politicians' eligible daughters with dowries larger than most noblemen's daughters'. The problem was, he still did not want to marry for wealth and wealth alone.

"How's the history of Washington coming along, mi-Mr. Napier?" his assistant, Jenkins, asked. Evelyn was working at a property law firm in London, where he was living for the time being in order to be closer to Parliament. Besides, it wasn't as if he would ever be in the mood to throw house parties or dinners—he was a bachelor, after all. All Grimsby was to him now was an empty house.

Jenkins referred to the book he had started writing while in Washington, D.C. in 1920. He had been interested in the history of the city and in his free time he had researched its architecture in particular. Writing had become somewhat of an outlet for Evelyn while he was recovering from his wounds sustained in France. He had not really had the opportunity for sportsmanship in America, and so had found a new hobby in prose, which he had dabbled in a bit at university—all of his compositions up until his work on Washington had been fictional. It seemed to suit him, seeing as he had a keen eye for detail and always painted a verbal picture of what he observed in his mind as he observed it. "It's the ending that's troubling me, actually—other than that I believe I'm finished…of course, until I revise it." he stated with a grateful grin as Jenkins helped him into his coat.

He was stopped on the way out by one of his colleagues. "Napier, some of the others and I are going out for a drink and some billiards—would you like to come along?"

"No, thank you, Sanford—I'm afraid I'm far too busy. Good night." He nodded and put on his homburg as he strode to his car.

His butler, Pennington, met him at the door to his townhouse. "A prosperous day, milord?"

"Very, thank you. I'll take my dinner in the library." He usually did. Occasionally he walked down to the officer's club for dinner, but usually it was just him, as it had always been since his father's death.

"Milord, this just came in the evening post…" Pennington announced, following him and handing him a letter.

"Thank…" He wavered when he saw it had the Grantham seal. "Thank you, Pennington, that will be all." He sunk into the plump, leather chair at his desk, his eyes closing and then reopening as he stared at the seal. The last time he had been in contact with the Crawleys was shortly after Mary's husband had died—he had sent a very heartfelt letter expressing his deepest sympathies. What could they possibly want to do with them now…what could _she _possibly want to do with him? He swallowed and poured himself a glass of the whiskey he kept at his desk and took a fortifying sip as he opened the letter.

_Dear Lord Branksome,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for your kind letter to Lady Mary and myself—we are all soldiering on as best we can._

_That is actually the purpose of my letter—we are throwing a party for Lady Mary, and I think that it would lift her spirits to have you there. She needs to be surrounded by her friends at this time, and I have known you to be nothing short of a loyal and steadfast friend to both her and this family. We have all missed seeing you, and I know without a doubt that Lady Mary has as well._

_Best regards,_

_Lady Grantham_

Of course it wouldn't have been from _her, _he should have known better. Besides, he had kept all of her letters—he knew very well what her handwriting looked like. Nevertheless he was surprised that Lady Grantham had invited him, knowing how he felt about Mary—would this not make things even more awkward for her? He assumed she was no longer in mourning since they were throwing her a party, but even so, if he knew anything about Mary it was that she was probably more devastated than she was letting on. Hiding their feelings behind a toughened, polished shell was a trait they shared—though he had surely made more mistakes than she had, he was sure, their last conversation alone being one of them.

Lady Grantham was right in saying that he was loyal—he still extended his friendship, to Mary and to her family, but his concern was whether or not she truly wanted him there. He half-wondered if Mary knew that her mother had invited him—unless this was some sort of surprise party. He studied the letter intently again before exhaling and dropping it on the desk, reclining in his chair. He wanted to be there for her—he made a vow, a solemn one, to himself that he would, if ever she needed him. He had never intended to love her from afar, truly—he had wished her and her husband every imaginable happiness—and his mind did not dwell on her ceaselessly as it once had during the madness that was trench warfare, and yet he had made no efforts to find a wife. Oh, he had danced with heiresses when he was off in America, and had been introduced to many a beautiful and eligible young woman, but had never taken any serious interest. Part of him was married to his career, but he was now coming to the realization that another part of him…was, and always would be, in love with Lady Mary Crawley.

If he was a lesser man than he was, he might have entertained the fact thought this might be a second chance of sorts for him, that he could win her heart now that she was no longer spoken for. He would not, however, let himself think of that for long because it was a deplorable notion—suppose Mary did not want to remarry? He was sure she must still be grieving, if not outwardly, mentally at least. The last thing she needed was a man that had embarrassed them both by confessing his unrequited love and subsequently proposing to her coming into her house and trying to win her a third time.

Taking a deep breath and praying that Lady Grantham wasn't trying to set them up again, Evelyn withdrew a sheet of paper from his drawer and began to write a response accepting the invitation.


	8. A Spring Awakening

**Thanks again to my readers and reviewers!**

Evelyn turned his straw boater over in his hands restlessly as his chauffeur drove the Rolls Royce into the village. He remembered walking here with her during his last visit. It was not a bad memory, but every memory of her that he possessed only served to make him anxious. Would she be surprised to see him? Disappointed, or angry, even?

Surely Lady Grantham had either told her or known that she wouldn't mind when she invited him. He didn't know how happy she would be to see him, but he hoped that he could at least be of some comfort to her in her grief. He did want to simply be there for her as a friend, truly, but nothing more than that because she had never wanted him to be anything else.

He straightened his gold silk tie and smoothed down his white linen suit, his dull azure eyes peering out of the window. They fixed themselves upon the pavilion set up in the village square and the festive party streamers. "There—here's good enough, Larkin, thank you." He climbed out of the car, nodding at the chauffeur and taking a deep breath as he donned his boater and ambled over to the gathering.

He had gone without the cane he usually used out of pride. He wanted to stand tall as he had the visit before his last, and although it was painful, he would brave it. The doctor had said he had a chance at least for a full recovery, and he would push himself until he made that recovery.

He saw a few people he recognized from balls and other similar functions—nobles—and some of the others he could only surmise were villagers. He was looking for Lady Grantham, but his eyes fell upon her eldest daughter, and he felt his pulse accelerate instinctively. She must have realized someone was staring because their eyes met for a moment in which for him time itself seemed to slow. She looked surprised ( so Lady Grantham _hadn't_ told her ) and something else he couldn't quite place. He swallowed and moved forward, but then she looked away and continued listening to a man that had already been speaking with her.

He couldn't tell who the man was from behind, but he felt as if he had seen him somewhere. He shook himself from his foolish stupor and procured two glasses from a lemonade stand and purposefully walked over in their direction, trying not to feel or look jealous.

"Cornwall is—"

"Lady Mary." Evelyn interrupted whatever the man was talking about, smiling brightly at her.

"Lord Branksome—it's been so long." she answered, immediately turning away from the mystery man with a courteous smile…and was that relief? He must have been imagining it.

"It has. Your mother invited me—and I couldn't refuse a tour of your charming village." She looked different—as did he, probably since so much had happened since last they met. He noticed that she had cut her beautiful hair, but was still every bit as stunning as she was the day he had first set eyes on her. The thought had entered his mind before he had even realized it, and it became increasingly apparent that his heart would never cease to be devoted to this woman to whom he had been nothing other than a steadfast friend. "I'm ever so glad to see you again."

* * *

The reason Mary _looked_ so relieved was because she was. Mama must really think her foolish if she really believed that she had no idea what this party was really for. She was eligible again, and the mother of the heir to Downton. Because she was so young, she was expected to find another husband.

However that was something she wanted to do at her own pace. Matthew was and always would be a part of her. It wasn't that she was completely against the idea—she knew that she had to—but Mama's plan was far too obvious. She truly didn't want to be out here celebrating ( what on Earth was there to celebrate? ), and would much rather be inside with George, the only living part of him she had left.

Of course a man approached her not too long after the gathering started, introducing himself as Sir Charles Blake. He was well-mannered enough, and of course she put on an act that made her appear to be nothing but polite, but the truth was that she didn't want to be here. Even so, she realized that life went on and so must she, so she forced herself to ask him about where he was from. As he answered, her eyes restlessly wandered the pavilion before stopping on a pair of dark blue ones that she had not expected to see again.

Evelyn Napier had been the last person on her mind for the past several years, but she had not forgotten him. She had kept his gift he had sent to her when he came back from the front-the poppy-after all. She did consider him to be a friend, but had not spoken to him since he asked her to marry him five springs ago in 1917. Of course she felt horrible for him after rejecting him, but obviously she had not dwelled upon it all these years. She was sad that she had not heard of him finding anyone himself, but that was as far as her thoughts and interest had gone.

She had assumed that he had put his feelings behind him but when their eyes met again, she was almost transfixed—the last man to look at her like that, with nothing in his eyes but pure, unadulterated love, was her darling Matthew. At this thought, she tore her eyes away, her throat burning and her soul immediately overcome with guilt.

"It's a pleasure to see you again." she replied with a gracious smile, taking Evelyn's hand as he offered it. Her eyes glanced down at their joined hands briefly before she gently let go of his, trying to regain her composure. "Have you met Sir Charles?"

"I believe we have met—in London, I believe. You had just returned from Monte Carlo, I believe you said, Sir Charles?" Evelyn answered pleasantly, his eyes shifting to the shorter man.

Sir Charles seemed to wilt uncomfortably under his gaze. "I had, Your Lordship. If you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a bit parched…" He bowed slightly and hurried away.

Mary raised an eyebrow before it dawned upon her—was Evelyn suggesting he was a gambler? Was he jealous or was he convinced he was doing her a favor?

"Were you thirsty, Lady Mary? I took the liberty of getting an extra glass…which I was admittedly saving for you." he stated, handing her the glass.

"You're too kind, Lord Branksome. Thank you." She smiled and took the glass from him, raising it to her lips for a brief sip.

"How are you?" he inquired in a gentle but earnest tone, following as she motioned for him to walk alongside her. She was not as suspicious of him as she had been of Blake, mostly because—despite their last ill-fated conversation—this was still _Evelyn_ that had gone out of his way to protect her reputation, Evelyn whom she had laughed with years ago in London, Evelyn who was no more than a good friend. "As well as I ought to be, I suppose…and you?"

* * *

Admittedly he had been…put off at Blake, but not jealous of him. What was there for him to be jealous of? They had been walking and talking—just as they were now—there was nothing inherently out of place about that. Besides, she could like whomever she wanted. He was not here to romance her, only to comfort her as a friend ought to.

Charles Blake was known for his love of the gaming tables. He had squandered thousands of pounds on his chosen form of recreation, but how far of a stretch would it be to think that Mary was his next target in his steadily increasing list of heiresses and noblemen's daughters that he'd been romantically linked with?

He was being protective of her, foolish as it was. He knew he had no right to care for her as much as he did, but he did—and it would be fruitless to deny it. "I've been alright, taking things one day at a time. I've been keeping myself busy with the estate and work and Parliament…but not too busy to turn down your mother's invitation." he answered with a smile. The smile faded as a thought entered his head, and he added hesitantly, "I was afraid my being here gave you a shock."

Mary shook her head. "This whole party was a shock—but your being here is a pleasant one. I've met half of these people only a handful of times. I'm very glad to have a friend here, really." She reinforced her point with her lovely smile, which in turn encouraged a smile of his own. "Now, you must tell me what you've been up to these past five years. Don't leave me in suspense."

At her light and playful tone, Evelyn was immediately filled with relief. So things were not awkward for her—and she wasn't angry with him. Perhaps it wasn't too late to salvage their relationship. With that hope in mind, Evelyn happily obliged.


	9. A Sentimental Journey

**Thanks to my reviewers and readers and followers! You guys are the best :) **

"I still don't understand how you survived four months in India, let alone a year in America."

Evelyn chuckled at Mary's half-teasing comment and shrugged. He had been recounting his international adventures to her for the past half hour, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that she was actually interested in what he had to say. What a departure it was from the last time he had tried to speak to her like this—in a serene setting, when her attention was diverted to his dead friend instead of him. "It wasn't so bad, really. There are certainly worse places to be stuck for a year." France, for example. He had been to France before the war had started and had enjoyed the country and the culture, and perfecting his skill at the language. Unfortunately wartime France was something completely different, and he found it impossible to separate the two in his head. He had no desire to return to France any time soon.

"So what will you do, now that you're back?" Mary asked as they both sat down at one of the tables set up under the pavilion.

"Well, I've been in Parliament as you probably know. When I'm not busy with that I'm usually settling property law cases—since that's what I studied at school." he explained, taking a sip of his lemonade and leaning back in his chair. Other than that he had no specific plans for his life. Of course the unspoken question was whether or not he would marry—he could tell that she wanted to ask it, probably out of friendly curiosity more than anything.

"And…there's no future Lady Branksome as of yet?"

He was surprised at her boldness but he supposed their relationship had gone past a barrier when he proposed to her five years ago. "No." He knew that he would have to marry if he wanted to keep his estate and title in his immediate family, but frankly he didn't care what his distant cousin or whoever was supposed to inherit should something befall him planned to do with it. He was going to marry for love, if he did marry, and there still was only one woman he loved, he was adamant. "As I said, I've kept busy. I haven't been to a ball in years. Mostly because of the travelling but still…I can't say it's one of my priorities."

Mary frowned at this and immediately questioned, "Shouldn't it be? Is it not your duty—to Grimsby and to your family as well?"

"My family is dead, milady." It was colder than he intended and he rubbed the bridge of his nose before apologizing, "I'm sorry. I suppose—well, I _know_—yes, I am expected to marry if only to carry on the Napier name, but to me that's not good enough of a reason to marry. I know that's not the most popular opinion, but it is mine. I…I have no wish to settle for anything other than love." He studied the tablecloth before forcing his eyes upward to meet hers, surprised to find that she had been gazing at him intently as he spoke. "I'm sorry, I've spoken too freely."

"Not at all. I'm sure when you find her, she'll be very lucky."

He turned his glass around in his hands, unable to come up with a suitable response to what he was sure was meant as a compliment and not a jab to his ego. _I've already found her,_ his heart wanted so desperately to say. _I'll wait for as long as you need me to_. "Only she can decide that." he settled for instead, their gazes again meeting.

"Mary, come say hello to your grandmother—oh, Lord Branksome!"

Evelyn broke the eye contact the same time she did when he heard Lady Grantham's voice. He smiled and rose as she approached the pair of them and took her hand. "Lady Grantham, thank you ever so much for your invitation, it was very kind of you."

"Oh, it was nothing—you're a friend of the family, we're all glad that you're here, aren't we, Mary?"

"Of course, very glad." Mary smiled at him but he sensed something unintelligible in her stare. "Excuse me."

He nodded and watched her briefly as she went off to speak with her grandmother.

"Thank you so much for coming."

His attention immediately shifted to Lady Grantham and he smiled again. "Of course."

"She _is_ glad to see you, you know." the American woman continued, and Evelyn observed her again as she spoke with the Dowager Countess at another table.

"Is she?" The question was more to himself than to Lady Grantham, and he added, "Your Ladyship, I feel I must make my intentions clear—I accepted your invitation as a friend of Lady Mary's, nothing more. Even though I…" He blinked as he tried to think of how best to word it. "My regard of your daughter is still very high."

"You do not wish to pursue her, however."

"Not unless she wants me to, Lady Grantham—and I'm afraid she doesn't. And won't, I daresay." He glanced down at his empty lemonade glass and smiled shamefacedly.

"She may not realize it now, but it would be wise of her to be resituated. She's very young, Lord Branksome, and I don't want to see her alone and unhappy like this…and I think that she'll come to realize that she doesn't _have_ to be. In any event, I would be glad to call you my son-in-law."

His blue eyes flickered to hers and he inclined his head gratefully. "That's very kind, Lady Grantham. But I'm afraid that's completely up to Lady Mary." And as far as he knew she still had little interest in him—or remarriage for that matter. He could understand her obvious frustration at her mother trying to fling suitors at her this early. He wondered…he wanted to call upon her again, but on their terms, not necessarily because of Lady Grantham's intervention. His eyes found Mary's again and he shared a smile with her, a plan already forming in his mind.

* * *

He was still in love with her. He was evading saying it directly and he must have known that she was trying to find out, but Mary _knew_, just from the way he spoke and the way he had looked at her. As Anna helped her dress for bed she found herself recounting how they had spoken, and his last words before Mama had interrupted them which had been so telling: _Only she can decide that_. She wanted to refuse to decide anything because she knew that his being there was her mother's doing…but had he truly loved her for that long, when there had been no chance for him at all?

She wanted to doubt him but there was such an earnestness in his eyes, as he spoke that short sentence and as he asked to meet her in the village the following Wednesday, she found it difficult to refuse him. She was angry that she had accepted and angry that his gaze had had such an effect on her, but found herself shocked to find that she was _not_ angry when said gaze was the one that entered her mind instead of a much lighter blue one as she failed at fighting off sleep and drifted into slumber.


	10. There I'll Be

The last time he had been at this station was the morning he found out Kemal had died and left Downton Abbey. He had asked Mary for a walk in the gardens, so that he could tell her how he felt and ask her if she would consider courting him, but she had turned him down. Her rejection was polite, but it was clearly rejection, and it stung like nothing he had felt before that moment.

Evelyn sighed and cleared the thought from his mind. He was not here for round two of heartbreak. He only wished to speak with her, as they did in the old days, before he complicated things with a spontaneous declaration of love and subsequent proposal.

He had asked her to meet him in the village that afternoon, and was prepared to walk the small distance from the station to the corner cafe they had agreed to meet at, but as he stepped out onto the platform, he saw her waiting for him. He stood there, khaki fedora in hand, stupefied until their eyes met. She wore red-just as she did that last dinner party he had attended at her house before the war-and he realized not for the first time how becoming it looked on her. He smiled and donned his hat, approaching her and touching his brim.

"I didn't know you'd be waiting here," he said with a bright grin. She really did look stunning. She always did, he knew, but...no there was no way she had or would have dressed any differently for him. He belayed the thought before it could even take root.

She smiled at him then-her smiles were so rare, but golden. He treasured each and every smile she had given him, and the only thing he had prayed for in the trenches was to see her smile again. "You'd think me rude if I didn't. Besides, one always picks up one's guests at the train station."

Evelyn's head tilted in confusion. "Lady Mary, I didn't mean to impose...I only wished to walk with you; I wouldn't wish to prevail upon your hospital-"

She held up a hand to interrupt him. "You wouldn't be. I hardly think accepting an invitation to luncheon to be an imposition. Will you accept?"

He was surprised at this-the whole reason he had arranged an informal meeting was so that she and her family would not be under the impression that he wanted to pursue her. Of course...he _did_ want to, but he did not see what good it would do-and it was obvious that she was not ready to move on. When or rather if she was, he would be waiting, if she would even have him. "Of course. It's kind of you-and your parents-thank you."

"Thank you for gracing us with your presence again after all these years. I know you told me what you've been doing since the war, but how have you been? Really?" Mary asked him as they started for the car.

"Alright, I suppose." Evelyn answered with a soft shrug, unsure what to make of the question. He figured it was polite concern but then there was that twinge of worry in her tone that nagged him.

"Your leg healed, I see." she commented with a pleasant smile, which was of course infectious to him. "You must be very glad."

"I am. It took a while but I think the time away in America did me a world of good." When the words left his mouth, he realized that he wasn't talking about his leg, not really. And it was a pitiful lie-it had done him no good at all because he loved her as much as he did the day he left Downton in 1917. "And you? How are you, really?"

"Fine...I'm fine as I can be. George keeps me busy." she replied in a voice he recognized as her trying to put on a brave front, but he could hear or sense the vulnerability beneath it. He watched her enter the car as the chauffeur opened the door and sat down in the back seat beside her, trying to ignore how close they were sitting.

He was silent for a few moments and then on impulse asked, "Is Sir Charles an acquaintance of yours?"

Mary looked surprised by the sudden question, and he began to regret it, feeling like a foolish schoolboy at Eton again, but she did not appear to be put off by it. "No. That is, Papa introduced him at the party, but I don't know him well enough to call him an acquaintance, really. Why do you ask?"

Evelyn felt inexplicable and irrational relief coursing through him, but tried to appear nonchalant. "No particular reason. I was just wondering-I've seen him at White's a couple of times."

"I take it that he is a gambler? You said something about Monte Carlo." Mary inquired, arching an eyebrow. She looked amused and...dare he think, grateful?

"He is. I'm sure he's a charming person..."

"Please, Lord Branksome. He was only there at Mama's request and I think we both know what she was trying to do. I should thank you, really."

Her directness and her smile arrested him, and he grinned back tentatively before looking away, finding her eyes to be more than he could bear. "It's alright, you don't have to thank me. I'd do anything for a friend." _ For you_, he wanted to confess. _I'd do anything for you alone_. He raised his eyes to meet hers, which he was stunned to find had never left him. He swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came.

"Here we are, milady."

"Thank you, Pratt." Mary's eyes lingered a little longer and he realized then that she knew. She knew that he still loved her. It was partially a relief to know that she did, but it also worried him. What did she think of him now? He truly did not come here to woo a grieving widow into marrying him; he only wanted to offer his friendship. Would she take it, now that she knew?

They left the car and Evelyn watched it drive away before glancing over at Mary.

"Why hasn't it changed?"

He blinked when she spoke, her eyes meeting his and rooting him where he stood. They were confused, demanding, and something indeterminate. "I...I think you know why." he muttered boldly, unable to look away by now.

Her eyes searched his and she turned away, the pair falling silent once again.

"Mary, you know that's not why I'm here..." he began, but she shook her head and faced him.

"Isn't it? That's the only reason I can think of that you'd be so impossibly loyal after how I've treated you in the past." Her tone was not accusatory, only puzzled.

Evelyn sighed in defeat and stared at the sky, cloudless and clear unlike his racing mind. "No, I haven't stopped, Mary. I've tried, I've struggled in vain-"

Her sudden burst of laughter shocked and then angered him. Did she think this was funny? A game? She seemed to read his mind and shook her head, smiling that damnable smile of hers that in this moment hurt and yet hypnotized him. "Austen. Not the exact quote of course, but...you remembered."

He blushed, as the quotation was unintentional, and smiled back bashfully. "Of course I did. You're very dear to me, Mary, and I know you're aware of that. I come here as a friend, not a suitor. If you don't want me here, then-"

"I do." she interrupted, her voice and eyes proving her words to be sincere. "And I am fond of you. I can't...I can't return what you feel-not now-but I do want us to be friends again. Until I'm ready, would you accept my friendship?" The hopeful, almost shy look on her face did him in, along with the suggestion that one day she might be able to love him.

His eyes had widened at this and he was dumbstruck. "Of course. I'll always be here...and I'd wait forever if you asked, because I am yours." he stated firmly, his eyes gazing into hers lovingly.

She smiled at this and looked down before gazing up at him again. "I may be stubborn but I doubt it will take _that_ long, Evelyn, honestly." she teased.

He smiled back at her comment and then an idea occurred to him. "Would you be willing to take a walk with me? In the gardens?"

His request was modest and he doubted that she would remember the first time he had made it. Her eyebrows were indeed furrowed in confusion at his meaningful gaze, but then recognition flooded across her face. "I would love to." she accepted with a warm smile. In spite of his efforts not to appear too excited over something as simple and unassuming as a walk, Evelyn grinned. Yes, he would wait-as he had for ten years for the walk-but for now he was more content than he had been in years.


	11. I'll Be Seeing You

**Thanks to all of my readers, reviewers, and followers! This took a bit of time to write because I needed to think very carefully about the direction of the story, but here it is! I'd like to give a special shout out to Hillevi, who has been very supportive of this work the whole time, and to dgd2001 for your constructive criticism. Keep up the reviews, guys, I love to read what you think.**

* * *

"Tell me, Lord Branksome, what did you think of New York?"

Evelyn took a bite of his cucumber sandwich and swallowed before answering, "Quite marvelous, Lady Grantham. I was thoroughly impressed…it was much different from any other city I've visited—a very modern city, I would say." he answered with a slight smile. The majority of the luncheon's conversation revolved around his extended trip to America on diplomatic business. Lady Grantham seemed to be most interested in his travels, which he attributed to her having grown up in the country, while Lord Grantham was politely attentive, though he could tell the man was bored, Edith was noticeably absent ( in London, he was told ) and Mary didn't hesitate to teasingly extend her sympathies for having been stuck there for almost a year.

"I wouldn't last a minute there, I'm sure. I still can't believe you were there for that long—how ever did you survive it?" she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

"It really wasn't all that bad. There are far worse places I could have been assigned, I think." God knew he had been to far worse places. America—although much different from England—had been a comfort to Evelyn, perhaps for that reason. It in no way reminded him of Mary, who was blissfully unaware of what had become of him. It had been better that way—for if she did not think of him and had no reason to, then it would be easier for him not to think of her. At least, that was what he hoped. Every once in a while there was a pang of heartbreak in his chest whenever he saw something she would find funny or would enjoy, and for a moment he would let his mind gravitate to her. It never lasted very long because he knew how futile it was to dwell on what could never have been, what never _could_ be.

He wondered, because of what she had said to him, if she was truly open to it now. It almost seemed too good to be true—that she would even think about him, about them, any differently than she had for the past ten years. He did not want to let himself hope _too_ much in case she changed her mind. He didn't expect to ever be happy, which was why he was so hesitant in hoping that he would be. Between four years of war and his failed attempt to win her heart in the past, he wasn't sure that hoping again was the best idea for his heart at the moment. Nevertheless for her he would take a leap—and it was, quite a leap—of faith.

When the meal was finished, Evelyn found himself in the hallway with Mary, as he had planned to catch the afternoon train back to London. "Thank you for the lovely afternoon. You must pass on my compliments to your cook, lunch was delicious." He smiled but he felt as if he was holding back again, feigning triviality in the friendly tone of his voice, as if he was afraid to become the sincere, earnest young man he was—had been—years ago and just a couple of hours before.

He didn't know why he wanted to put on an act now, maybe it was because he realized that he was getting ahead of himself. She must have sensed this because her next question seemed to be aimed at encouraging him. "We'll see each other again soon, won't we?"

He blinked at this and his smile returned, much brighter than it had been before. "Yes—yes, if you would like."

"Of course I would."

Her answer and accompanying smile, slight as it was, was enough encouragement for him to ask, "I don't suppose…you'd like me to write to you? I mean, I would like to write to you, if you wouldn't mind…" God, he felt like that boy fresh from Oxford again, with barely enough gumption to ask her to dance. He didn't know why or how she still had this effect on him after all these years. He had gone to war, faced far more frightful things than asking Lady Mary Crawley if he could write to her on a regular basis—something that they used to do constantly before the war without him even having to ask—and yet he still possessed a great deal of apprehension in doing just this.

It seemed to amuse her, and he couldn't help but grin—only half-apologetically— at the slight chuckle she let out over his bashfulness. "We'll both write. I wonder if you would to come to dinner in a few weeks? Mama has invited an old family friend—a Lord Anthony Gillingham, he's one of the Duke of Dunley's sons."

"Gillingham? I think I might have met him a few times—if my memory serves me right we were the same year up at Oxford." He couldn't for the life of him remember what he was like, or his face, but the same sounded familiar. "In any case, I would be glad to join you and your family for dinner again. Thank you." He turned over his hat in his hands and then settled it upon his head, touching his brim. "Until then—and I promise to write often."

"You'll have a reply just as often. Good-bye." She nodded at him, and smiled again, which he couldn't help but return, as he stepped into the car.

As their chauffeur drove him off to the station and even when he boarded the train, his mind dwelled upon that smile and the rare laugh that she had given him. Knowing that he had been the cause of it made him grin like a schoolboy, so much that the woman with the food trolley gave him an odd look. He blushed and his face became impassive again as he went back to the paper he had intended to read.

* * *

"How was your day, sir?"

"Very good, Jones, thank you." Evelyn nodded at the man after he handed him his dressing gown, which he pulled over his striped pajamas. "I was glad to see my friend again, as usual." He knew that the valet knew well enough whom he was talking about. Albert Jones had seen him struggling across the blood-splattered field after he had been wounded on the Somme, and had carried him the rest of the way to the medical officer after he fell unconscious. He had written to him as soon as he realized that he was still alive, and asked him to come work for him after he had been discharged himself. Jones was a farmer's boy—'a Shropshire lad', he would always say, since both he and his employer were admirers of Housman's work—and self-educated for the most part. Evelyn had helped him further his reading skills when he came to work as his valet, lending him books from his steadily growing library. Most of their casual conversations were about literature, but he did trust him, and he often did come to him with his troubles.

"Will you be seeing more of her, milord?" he asked, his red eyebrows raised slightly. Jones was much more forthright than he was—than any men in his own position were, or could afford to be. It was a trait he admired in the classes lower than his. If they were able to be more straightforward, it would make life a lot easier, but it wasn't in their nature.

Thus in his answer, he was vague. "Only time will tell."

* * *

**Next up: your first glimpse at my version of Gillingham! This is totally AU ( as you've probably guessed ) since I have no idea what goes on in Lord Fellowes's mind, but from his short description of him I hope I do him justice.**


	12. Interloper

**Thanks to my reviewers, readers, and followers!**

* * *

The last time he had eaten dinner here, his best friend ended up dead. For most people, that was ample reason to steer clear of Downton Abbey, but it was a lesson that Evelyn Napier could never be taught. He had come there after being wounded on the Somme, of course, and spent some of the most painful—and not just physically—few weeks in his life there. It was so torturous to be so close to someone you loved without them knowing it, without feeling that you could tell them. And when he finally broke down and confessed—and even made an impromptu offer of marriage—it had all been for naught, or so he believed at the time.

Mary had asked him to wait, and wait he would. He was surprised and gladdened that she wanted to see him again so soon, but they could hardly call this a courtship—which was fine. It wouldn't be proper, of course, and for the most part Evelyn saw propriety as something important, something to be respected. However there were times when he was willing to go against it—such as when he almost asked her to marry him years ago without his father's blessing, or hers for that matter. It was rash, spur of the moment, _desperate_. It was a desperate, broken man's attempt to cling to whatever familiarity, whatever humanity he had left. Memories of her had kept him alive during the war, and naturally when _his_ war ended the first thing he had wanted was to see her. Part of him wanted to blame his unstable mental state for his reckless words, but he knew that it wasn't that. He had seen his visit to Downton in 1917 as his last chance, his last opportunity to let her know how deeply he cared for her. In many ways, it had been. Looking back, however, he was right initially—it had been a fool's errand. He had never had a chance to begin with because the stars—for whatever reason—were aligned a certain way, and they were pulling Mary and Matthew Crawley together. He could never have fought that, even if he had wanted to—and he hadn't. She loved _him_, and he knew it then. She had been happy, which was all that he could ask for, even if it felt as if a knife had been twisted through his feeble heart. All he wanted was for her to be happy, and if he couldn't give that to her, he had wished that someone else could have—and he had.

Despite his attempts to push the feelings away, they had not simply evaporated into thin air. They were still very much alive, and his mind still very much wondered if he—if they—had a chance, if he would be able to somehow prove that he had loved her, that he did love her all along. He did not like to think of how he may have gotten this 'chance', if it was a chance at all, because no man deserved to go like that, even if they had once been rivals ( though that even seemed silly, because Matthew had always had the upper hand ).

In any case, he found himself at the doorstep of Downton Abbey, being shown in by a tall, lanky footman with red hair and directed to the drawing room. The last time he had been in here was when he and Matthew had watched Kemal charming the mutual object of their affections, making wry comments to each other about how unlucky they were. He had been a terribly nice chap—under different circumstances, perhaps they could have been friends…but it would do him no good to think of any of that now.

He smiled readily and genuinely when Mary approached him, looking stunning again in red—he wondered if she knew how becoming he thought it was on her. But how stupid would it be to think that she had worn something special because of him of all people? "Lady Mary." he acknowledged her with a nod.

"Lord Branksome. How good of you to make it. How are you?" He could see her wonderful, genuine concern in her eyes—it was something he would expect from any friend, but even so…perhaps was just the simple fact that after all these years he was still entranced by her eyes regardless of the expression that caused him to notice this.

"Good—nothing to complain about. Things are busy in Lords…but I like to be busy—and you know I always did want to work in Parliament."

"I remember." She nodded, a faint smile on her face as they both recalled his wartime visit. "Will you still run for Commons?"

His face grew pensive at this and he took a moment to think before answering, "I'm not sure. Part of me would like to, since it's always been a dream of mine. Sometimes I really do consider it because I feel as if my voice isn't being heard. I suppose it's because I'm one of the youngest members and the older chaps are just waiting for me to prove that I have a head on my shoulders, but the thing is they haven't really given me anything to do. I have my own ideas of course, which I readily share in debates, but they're indulging me, if anything, and not truly _listening._" The frustration was evident in his voice, his mannerisms, and his face, and once he realized it, he smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't complain to you and bore you with my troubles…"

To his surprise, there was a flicker of subtle understanding in her eyes, and the pair exchanged a meaningful glance. "It's alright. You're not the only person to ever feel patronized." He was surprised at how open she was, and as soon as she had spoken, that cool demeanor that he was so used to returned, and the glance and her empathetic tone vanished like a dream more than a distant memory. In that moment he came to a realization that he had been granted a glimpse of the woman behind the mask.

"Ah, Lord Branksome, always a pleasure, and Mary, there you are!" The telltale American accent gave Lady Grantham away before he set eyes on her—and she was accompanied by a tall, dark-haired, athletic-looking man that looked so terribly familiar. "There's someone that I want you to meet—or reacquaint yourself with, I should say."

"You must be Lord Anthony Gillingham, I presume." Mary greeted him with a polite smile and a nod.

The man smirked and shook his head. "You really don't remember, do you?"

Evelyn's dull blue eyes shifted between the two, watching the exchange with an unfamiliar mixture of trepidation and unease, as if he was in the middle of something and completely apart from it—as if he had no business being there, even if she was the one who had invited him. His reasoning insisted that he was being ridiculous, childish even, so he tried to look pleasantly entertained when on the inside his gut was twisting. He wouldn't call the feeling jealousy because really, what did he have to be jealous of? She had called him a family friend, and she had asked him here as well—they were both family friends. He shouldn't feel threatened because she was not—and never was—his to begin with, so what on earth was being threatened?

"Only that Mama says we met when we were children. I apologize, but I daresay I can't remember much else…"

"You've forgotten Toffee-faced Tony? You always used to say that I stuffed my face with toffees too much and the name sort of stuck…"

The man seemed disappointed and Mary's face slowly changed as recognition dawned. "You'll have to forgive me—you're much taller than I remember."

Gillingham chuckled and held out his hand. "Well, these things happen after what—twenty years?"

"Surely it can't have been that long…"

"Seems like it—Napier? By Jove, you look horrible. I'm only joking." A wide grin spread across the man's face as he offered his hand to the baffled viscount. "We were in the same class, remember? Battling for captain of the rugby team, but of course you went and joined the cricket team and the rest, they say, is history?"

"It's Branksome, now, but yes, I'm starting to." His smile felt forced as he shook the other man's hand. Yes, he remembered Anthony Gillingham. Evelyn had always had a love of sports, even before Eton, and dedicated equal time to his studies. He was best at steeple chasing and hunting foxes and playing cricket, but he had loved rugby. Gillingham had been far more suited to it than he had with his enormous, imposing frame. They had both wanted to lead the rugby team, Gillingham had gotten his wish, and Evelyn had quit to join the cricket team. He had been young then, young and sensitive, and had seen it as a personal failing. He didn't hold grudges—and how could he? Gillingham was so charismatic, he couldn't find a reason to _dis_like him. In many ways he was almost everything he wasn't—charming, exciting, funny, laidback. "What have you been up to all these years?"

"Oh, you know—Eton, then Cambridge, then Paris, then Rome, then the trenches, then the sky, and more sky, and a barrister's office, and now here."

"Heavens, you've been busy." Mary interjected, with that gentle smile of hers that he so wished was directed at him.

"You're a barrister?" Evelyn asked, blinking.

"A man must work—well, a man that isn't lucky enough to inherit his dad's title anyway." Gillingham answered nonchalantly with a shrug. "Dear old Joey has that luxury. I did some exhibitions with my biplane over in Wales and then decided to put my law degree to good use."

"You're a pilot, as well?" Mary inquired, raising her eyebrows.

"I am—first during the war, and I could never kick the habit. I'm always up in the air, it's difficult to keep me on solid ground, actually. I was in the cavalry first but then I realized I didn't want to get mowed down—excuse me, shot at anymore—so I went airborne. Of course it was still dangerous but I liked it better anyway."

It annoyed him how brash he could be about the war whereas with him even talking about it drudged up several different unpleasant memories. He was jealous of his ability to put the dark past behind him if nothing else.

"What have you been doing, Branksome? So sorry to hear about your father."

And then he had to say things like that which made him feel bad for being jealous. "Thank you. I actually practiced property law myself for a little while after my foreign posting in America. Then when Father died, I took over his seat. I still do the odd case here and there whenever I get the chance…though I'm a solicitor, not a barrister."

"Shame. I mean, no shame in being a solicitor, but I just feel like all the fun's in arguing the cases instead of sitting behind a desk—have you ever thought about qualifying?" Gillingham asked him without a hint of superiority in his eyes. It was maddening. The man wasn't trying to make him feel inferior but it was as if his mere presence was accomplishing that of its own volition.

"Matthew was a solicitor and he quite enjoyed it—I'm sure Lord Branksome finds fulfillment in his work as well?" Mary glanced at him for confirmation, and he was surprised at her mentioning Matthew because she hadn't, at least not this casually, in any conversation they had had together before since his death.

"I do. But I will keep your words in mind, Lord Anthony."

"Tony, please—everyone calls me that. Well, mostly everyone, anyway."

He found it so difficult to believe that he and Mary had been the best of pals once upon a time because they were so _different_—she the very image of propriety and he anything but. Then again, Matthew had been rather informal when they had spoken that one time, but that was to be expected since he hadn't been born the heir. Maybe he _was_ too boring for her. Thankfully he didn't have to call Gillingham 'Tony' because Lady Grantham announced that they were going through. He silently prepared himself for the ordeal to come as he followed the chattering friends to the dining room.


	13. Where Allegiances Truly Lie

**Thanks to my readers and followers, and especially to those of you that reviewed! I love seeing what you guys think.**

* * *

Evelyn sifted through his potatoes as Gillingham kept the rest of the table engaged by a probably thrilling story about airplanes. He had been quiet most of the conversation, only looking up to smile at the right moments and laugh whenever the others did. He was good at playing the part of attentive listener, as he was, most of the time. If he was good at anything, it was listening. He was the good friend, the good listener…

"Lord Branksome, are you alright?"

He had been clutching his fork a little too tightly as he watched Mary and Gillingham conversing—it was almost like déjà vu from ten years ago, with her and his dead friend that she was obviously so enchanted by—and he felt ashamed for not just feeling jealousy, but for letting Edith see it. "Quite." he answered in the same quiet tone, smiling briefly at her as he cut off a piece of his steak.

He could tell she wasn't fooled, but she didn't press the matter any further—at least not directly. "We've all missed seeing you, Lord Branksome, after all these years."

"Thank you. I've been quite busy lately, what with the foreign posting…" His attention was diverted when Mary laughed at something or other Gillingham said in an undertone, but he shook his head and looked back at Edith. "And Parliament, of course. I heard that you were a journalist now, in London?" He changed the subject rather abruptly because he didn't want to talk to her about himself or the _real_ reason he had stayed away from Downton all these years, though he had a hunch that Edith had her suspicions.

She obliged his attempt to shift the attention onto her instead of himself and nodded. "Well, not exactly a journalist—but a columnist, for _The Sketch_."

Evelyn smiled and took a sip of his drink before answering, "Ah, so you're _that_ Lady Edith Crawley. It's very well done."

Edith looked surprised at his compliment and blushed. "Did you really read it?"

"I did. I thought it was very well-written and very thought-provoking. I'm sure you have a grand career ahead of you." he stated, raising his glass slightly. His praise, he believed, was well merited. He had read her column a few times in the past, and he did truly think it to be well-written. His motives on complimenting her so openly were very innocent, but he belatedly realized that she might take it as something else. He lowered his glass to his lips and dedicated his attentions to his dinner again, pausing in cutting his vegetables to glance over at Mary—who had been watching him and looked away. Evelyn was confused at this but didn't think much of it as he raised his fork to his mouth.

"So, how _was_ America? I was in town when you were here for luncheon…" Edith inquired in a genuinely curious tone.

He was flattered by the attention, truly, and he didn't wish to sit there sulking the whole dinner so he was glad to retell his story. Although he had never been a person that craved attention in any sense of the word, he was used to playing second fiddle to other people, even though he had been his father's only child and heir. He was not an interesting person—that was simply a fact of life that he had accepted long ago. He was not the dashing, daring, handsome sort of man that most women looked for in a future husband, which was why the whole 'finding a wife that could love him for him' debacle had been so difficult. He had been lucky to find Sarah Semphill, who had truly fallen in love with him, and didn't expect him to be anything else than what he was. And he _should_ have loved her. By God, he should have. He had no reason not to love her, no logical reason. She was more than any sane man could ask for in a future wife, but he had not loved her. He had loved the idea of her, the idea of a woman that loved him for who he was, that wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, but he had not loved _her_. In the back of his mind, he had always pictured the woman that he could never have, that would never have him. She had been a permanent fixture in his mind, even then, when he was planning to marry someone else—and he had no real reason to be so fascinated with her when she had not showed the slightest non-platonic interest in him. He had thought—hoped, _prayed_—that the engagement would finally allow him to let go of Lady Mary Crawley, but all it had done was emphasize the fact that he still was not over his love for her.

It was not even a memory that had haunted the depths of his mind, but a dream—a dead hope—and when he was still engaged he had wanted the dream and not the reality. He had let it go on for months, until finally he realized that he could never marry her in good conscience when his soul belonged to another woman—who was then unaware—and broke the whole thing off. He sometimes thought about how his life might be now had he gone through with it. Perhaps he would have recovered from the psychological horrors of war that still seized his mind at night by now. Maybe he would have had children. The nagging question was whether he would have been happy. He doubted it. The marriage would have still been for convenience, on his part, and not love. He would have spent the years guilty over the fact that he preferred a woman that had never been his to his own wife. He would have spent the years wondering what could have been had he been more persistent.

It had been a bit easier when he went to America after Mary had married. 'Out of sight, out of mind' was not completely true, but he had been able to live his life and at least _try_ to haul himself out of the abyss he had dug for himself through loving her. What she had told him that day before luncheon had given him hope, which was a funny thing. It had been by no means a promise, but it had given him the smallest of hopes that one day she could see him as something other than dependable, steadfast, faithful Evelyn Napier, friend of the family.

So why then, when he had watched her and Gillingham, did it seem as if that hope was withering away? He wanted to say that he wasn't jealous, and he wasn't petty—because he usually wasn't. Even in Eton he had realized that jealousy was a vice that got people nowhere, and had tried to stay above it. The incident with then young Gillingham was an exception—and an example of why jealousy was something that he was better off avoiding. He had loved rugby and wished that he had continued playing it without thinking about the fact that Gillingham was better than him at it. Of course that was a completely different situation than the current one, but he was not about to let those feelings overwhelm him again. He did not let his eyes wander to the pair again for the duration of the dinner, but if he had he might have noticed the familiar brown eyes that he loved so much glancing over in his direction every so often.

* * *

"So you were with the…?"

"Queen's 9th Lancers." Evelyn answered Gillingham's query, silently hoping that he didn't want to swap war stories with him as he had done with Lord Grantham a few moments ago while the ladies were in the drawing room. Gillingham and Lord Grantham both had been intent on including him in the conversation, and he offered his opinion here and there but was not very keen on drudging up those memories now that he was beginning to be able to set them aside in everyday life. He still had no control over his dreams, but the conscious episodes where he spaced out in the middle of the day catatonically were few and far between.

"Ah, you did always like horses, didn't you? Champion of the polo club at Oxford, huh?"

"I wouldn't say all that…" Evelyn couldn't help but smile at the comment, but unlike Gillingham he wasn't exactly one to brag. "But I did enjoy a good match of polo every once in a while, yes."

"What's this?"

Both men turned as Mary walked—well, in his mind, glided because she was like that—over to them, wineglass in hand. Gillingham found his voice before Evelyn did and he was taken off guard when the slightly taller man clapped him on the shoulder. "Napier here was the best polo player Eton has produced in years—and he refuses to tell me anything about his successes at Oxford."

"Well, now you must tell because I'm intrigued." Mary prodded with a smile, her eyes flickering over to him.

"There's not really much to tell. Father was intent on my being his prize steeplechaser after he saw that I liked to ride, and I wanted to get some practice while I was away at school, so I took up polo again."

"He's being modest, he's the one that beat the other team into a pulp at nearly every match. And he didn't do too badly against Cambridge either, I'm sad to say." Gillingham interjected.

Why the devil was he sticking up for him? They had never been friends—rivals once upon a time, if anything. It didn't make any sense to Evelyn why he was being so kind to him. It was in his nature to appear likable—he had noticed that even in school—but when they were both so clearly interested in the same woman, it didn't make sense for him to compliment him in front of said woman.

"You should organize a match. It would be the talk of the county if we had a polo competition. And I do know Papa enjoys watching a good match of polo."

He blinked at this and then his eyes shifted to Gillingham, who was unsurprisingly enthusiastic. "A smashing idea, wouldn't you say, Napier? Oxford against Cambridge all over again? Why, we could round up our old friends—er, the living ones, that is."

_Yes, but how many of them are_? Part of him dreaded this because even though he found riding therapeutic when he was trying to get over his leg, he had not played a game of polo in years. Gillingham had gotten through the war unscathed, appearing the perfect paradigm of athletic excellence even now. He could probably back out of it by claiming his injury to be an impediment, but part of him did wish to impress Mary. It was that less rational part of him that accepted the challenge. "Oxford against Cambridge, it is. Set the date and I'll try to convince a few of my old acquaintances to taking it up again."

Three weeks from the current day was the agreed upon date of the match. That gave him nearly a month to relearn everything he knew about polo. He honestly had not played polo since his last year at Oxford, in 1911—so nearly eleven years. Masculine pride would not allow him to back down from this challenge. He felt, stupidly perhaps, as a knight jousting another knight for the hand of the lady upon which both pairs of eyes were set. This was hardly the same situation, but he supposed it was ironic in a way.

Gillingham went to bed before he did, claiming that he was visiting his brother in the morning and would be stuck on a train all day. Edith said that she had to work on her next column, and the Lord and Lady Grantham were engaged in a conversation of their own before retiring themselves. Evelyn was left alone with Mary, which he supposed would not have been allowed years ago, but she was a widow now and qualified to be a chaperone herself, so one was not needed. Not that he would ever dream of saying or doing anything improper.

"I didn't get a moment to speak to you all dinner." She broke the silence rather abruptly, which came as a surprise to Evelyn. He had glanced at the clock and had considered going up himself, since he had an early train as well. "Anthony always was the talkative one. Was he like that at Eton?"

"More or less." Evelyn smiled at her and glanced at the fireplace in front of them. "He was…very popular at Eton. Very outgoing. The sort of person you wanted to be friends with but also wanted to _be_— " He spoke too quickly and regretted it instantly, as he had unwittingly admitted his own insecurity to her.

Mary arched an eyebrow in confusion. "You wanted to be like Anthony?"

"I…not exactly—I don't know why I said that." He ran a hand through his hair and then fiddled with his fingers. "He was so good at rugby, and I suppose that then I wanted to be just as good. I wanted to be the charismatic one—the one that _could_ win a seat in Parliament by oratory alone," he referenced his age old ambition with a slight chuckle to lighten the mood. "He's a nice chap, though."

"He is." Mary agreed. "But then again, so are you." His eyes sought hers at this and she shared a genuine smile with him and then added offhandedly, "Edith certainly seemed to think so."

These words left Evelyn in a state of complete puzzlement. "Did she?"

She nodded. "Or so I would assume. She could barely keep her eyes from you all dinner." she responded in a flippant tone, but he sensed that there was more to it than that.

"She asked about my trip to America. I doubt I'm the very engaging storyteller, but she seemed interested." Evelyn explained with a faint smile. "But that was all. I'm sure she was just being polite." _You know things haven't changed_, he thought rather than said.

The words he had on his mind were unspoken ones, but she seemed to pick up on them anyway. "I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate to think that your allegiance had shifted." The comment was lighthearted but he could tell that she was trying to fish out information from him—did she truly doubt? After his impassioned confession?

"I think we both know that won't happen." He had somewhere in the midst of their conversation he must have stepped closer to her ( or was it the other way around? ), and he was distantly aware of the lack of distance between them. _This is the closest I've ever been._ To what, though? He felt as if he was on the precipice of something, but what? Their gazes met and his was earnest, readable. It spoke of years of love, words he had wanted to say but had been too afraid to, while hers was unintelligible, as if she was holding something back, as if she was afraid. He wasn't sure who made the first move, or what could have led to it, but seconds later their lips met simultaneously, and it was for him as if the heavens had opened and granted him a glimpse of some otherworldly paradise. Their lips moved in synch like a symphony, building, building, until—

"God, Mary, I'm so sorry." Somehow he had been able to come to his senses—which had been quite engaged and causing a fog around his mind which, if not otherwise occupied, would have realized how ridiculous, how foolish, how selfish he had been—and pulled away, opening his eyes so that he could convey just how sorry he was. "I don't know what came over me."

Mary shook her head and he froze, paralyzed, as her hand edged along his cheek. He couldn't move and he reasoned that something wasn't right, that she must have either had too much to drink or he had if he really thought that she was doing this to _him_, that she was looking at _him _like _that_, the way she had never looked at him in his entire recollection of their acquaintance. He wanted to repeat that he was sorry—he _should_ have excused himself right then and there—but her eyes again rooted him to the spot, and he suddenly understood. This understanding came just as she pulled his face down to hers, the kiss that followed driving away any doubts that he had had in the seconds before.


End file.
